


Poison

by Grand_Phoenix



Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [30]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Cryostasis, Drabble, Gen Work, Post-World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King, Pre-World of Warcraft: Cataclysm, mentions of body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 13:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19210282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: That woman will bring nothing but trouble. [Bolvar, atop his Frozen Throne, unmoving and fully aware][pre-Cata era, right before the Sundering]





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> For a while now, I had an idea of writing a short anthology of drabbles centered on Bolvar: from his time in being in Stormwind during the classic era, his fall at Wrathgate, the moment he put on the Helm of Domination, and his involvement in the third Burning Legion invasion upon the Broken Shore. They would be surreal and minimalistic, capping off (for now) at the end of the "Justice for the Fallen" questline that comprises of the Spirits Be With You achievement for the Horde (in which Bolvar kindly tells Vol'jin, the Speaker of the Horde, Talanji and Baine to GTFO of Icecrown).
> 
> I had entertained the thought of including this as part of that collection, but ultimately felt it did not meet the tone I have planned for; therefore, it will be standalone from it, as well as the other Bolvar/Deathlord-centric pieces that are to come.

The first sound he hears in a long, long while - or perhaps not even shortly after the ice cocoons him and his head is stuffed full of the darkness and nonsense ramblings of the walking dead all over Azeroth - is a clatter. It's muffled, and something goes flying across the floor and out of sight.

_Amor,_ he thinks, then,  _Arthas_. These are words that rise to the forefront of his thought, like watching a sunrise climb up over the horizon through a sea of dense fog: slow, dumb, sleep-drunk. All the world is still, waiting on a single breath amidst the dark.

_Who._ Not a question, nor a statement. Not even an interruption.

The shape of the person standing before the throne whirls around - at him.

The dragonfire simmers in his veins. Weak, a spark failing to strike a fire. It is not enough to warm his blood, though all that he is burns the agony of life, the pain of birth. His flesh is volcanic bedrock, and it is heavy. He cannot erupt. The magma flows sluggishly, coagulating.

He stares.

She rushes into view, quick and furious. Screaming, a demon come from the depths of hell.

Her hand slams against the block of ice. Cracks explode and splinter across the surface. Then again, and again, and again, and again.

The ice doesn't break. No force on earth, Light or Shadow, not even Fel, can.

She stops. She stares.

He stares.

At the top of the world, with only the stars and the saronite spires for company, the wind howls. The Alliance, the Horde, Tirion - all are gone from this forsaken place. There is no more reason to be here.

Except for her.

_Trouble,_ the man that was once Bolvar Fordragon calls Sylvanas Windrunner as she turns her back on him and walks away. Head held high and pace slow and sure.

_Nothing but trouble,_ he growls one sludge-filled moment later, and drifts. Eyes wide open, to the sight of the Banshee Queen surrounded by val'kyr and a frozen throne dusted with fading, ghostly feathers.


End file.
